


Half Sick of Shadows

by broomclosetkink



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Time baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haltingly, and with a great many tears, Rose gives the Doctor her story. From the beginning (run, that one word, emblazoning him across her heart for all of time), to the end (Rose Tyler, I –) and everything in between. He listens, quiet and watchful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Sick of Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> I swore I was never, never going to write Doctor Who fanfiction. Obviously, I am a big fat liar. Oh well, win some, lose some. Thank you rayspire for beta-ing!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, but if anyone has a spare Nine, I'm in the market.

It begins with dreams. He always has them (dreams, that is, not beginnings, though those do crop up upon occasion); in fact, they are the number one reason he avoids sleep. He dreams of the war; of the Nightmare Child, the fall of Arcadia, the Horde of Travesties; of Romana, of his children and grandchildren, and most especially _Gallifrey_. In the end, they all burn. There is nothing he can do, nothing, and _he_ is the one who caused it.

 

He works and runs, saves lives and worlds, trying hard to find penance and knowing he never will. Only when he can no longer take another step, move another muscle, does he sleep.

 

He doesn't bother with his bed anymore. Passing out with his back against the console, head buried in wires as he works on his magnificent time ship, or – when he is very lucky – in his favorite armchair in the library, is what happens in the end.

 

For weeks and months now, he's been dreaming not of the war (not as often), but of a woman.

 

She's human. Beautiful, but ordinary. She smells like time and sometimes her eyes are golden, and she leans close, whispering, “I am the Bad Wolf, and I create myself,” in his ear. It's a secret, a prayer, a warning. Sometimes she cries, mascara running down her cheeks, face pressed against a white wall that the Doctor can almost, almost see through.

 

He hates that wall, hates it with the bloody, narrow minded passion of a man who has lost everything. A hate like his is deep and dark and murderous, and if he could, he’d smash the empty, mocking expanse down, burn the whole building. He doesn't know why, not really, but he's sure that if he were ever to find it, he wouldn't be able to control himself.

 

The Doctor doesn't go looking for her. Is he scared? Not much scares him, not after the things he's seen. But she does, this woman with the Vortex curled around her tongue, glittering in her eyes. She can see through skin and bone and blood, can find secrets hidden inside. The Doctor would rather be flayed than have himself opened up like that, to show someone, _anyone_ , the darkness and self-loathing that eats away like a cancer.

 

He might not go looking for her, but find her he does. Walking through London, the streets busy and the gray sky filled with zeppelins, it's only by chance that the Doctor catches sight of blonde hair glinting in the dim light. It's just in the corner of his eyes, across the street. He looks without thinking, and it's like...like being hit with lightning, or regenerating, or maybe even _dying_.

 

Whatever it mimics, he can't breathe, or think properly, or move. Instead he can only stand and gape, hands limp at his sides and his knees gone to jelly as he watches her peer through the windows of a shop. She's got a strong jaw and wide mouth that's suited to smiling, bleached blonde hair, and wears a long, pretty dress. Bright flowers litter the fabric, and they suit her.

 

She's pregnant. Her stomach is heavy and round, and from it the Doctor can feel the flutter of life, the butterfly wings of a half formed mind pressing against his own curiously.

 

Before he realizes it, he's crossed the street. How he didn't get by a car he has no idea, but he's so focused on this woman that even if he had, he might not have noticed. She goes into the shop; he follows after a few minutes, chest clenching painfully.

 

Out of place in his black leather and work boots, surrounded by bassinets, changing tables, stuffed animals, and tiny little clothes; the Doctor can only imagine how he appears lumbering through it all. Socks smaller than his thumb, hats that wouldn't fit on his bloody knee. But there's this woman that haunts his dreams, humming prettily under her breath as she runs her hand over the glossy wood of a cot, and so he trails behind her like a brainless idiot.

 

He's too dumbfounded to move out of the way when she looks. He just _stands_ here, mouth open, feeling a bit sick as he watches her turn white before wobbling side-to-side. _She knows me_ , the Doctor realizes, having seen this expression more than once...though perhaps not quite in this way. _She knows me_ , he thinks again, and wonders why she clamps her hands around her belly even as her eyes fill with tears.

 

“Doctor?” she says his name like it's a blessing, a prayer, a thing to be cherished. He's never, never heard it spoken like that, not even before the war, and it makes him tremble. “How – how are you – _Doctor_!” Before he knows what to do, she's thrown herself at him, has her arms around his waist and is sobbing like her heart's been ripped out of her chest and fed to her.

 

“Doctor, my Doctor, my Doctor...” she whispers into his jumper, against his throat, into the worn leather of his jacket. He holds her because he has no choice, giving the three worried shop girls that rush over the best calming smile he can manage at the moment.

 

“Been away,” he explains in his heavy Northern burr, “gave her a bit of a surprise, I did.”

 

“ _Aw_ ,” they coo, like they're lovers reunited, the Doctor and this crying woman.

 

Somehow he manages to get her out of the shop before she faints, a fact for which the Doctor is incredibly grateful.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The medbay is sterile white and stainless steel, and the Doctor spent far too much time here during the war for it to be a comfortable room. Still, this is where he takes his mystery woman, because that being growing in her belly is rollicking joyfully through his mind, thrilled to find someone who can comprehend him in the way the Doctor does. It's a he, the Doctor finds early on, and he's very involved in suckling his fingers. He also has a case of reoccurring hiccups, which is irritating but somehow pleasant, something new to discover and experience.

 

The Doctor runs every scan and test he can think of. What he finds is flabbergasting.

 

The woman is a human. There are hints and specks of the Time Vortex in her blood, which should be impossible and makes her something new, something different. But what? An unknown, the Doctor realizes with heavy hearts; Rassilon knows what the Vortex has, and is continuing, to do to her. She has high blood pressure (probably pregnancy related), a small iron deficiency (he gives her a shot to help with this), and is carrying an unborn Time Lord.

 

This the Doctor checks four times, just to be certain. But the results remain the same, right down to the two little hearts pumping away. After a while, the Doctor's legs give out, and he sits right down in the floor, nearly senseless.

 

That little mind is back in his, thrilled and excitable. No words, not yet, but he seems to be a tangent of motherly love. The baby can feel her, her ups and downs and thoughts and love. She has a lot of love for this baby, this little Time Lord, and she showers it on the unborn child every second of every day. He speaks in emotions, shares his discovery of his fingers, and also, his feet. They're a bit new, and he's not quite sure what they're for, but they're his, and that's nice, isn't it?

 

Quite without warning, the Doctor begins to sob. Not quietly, not gently; it is loud, messy, and wrenching.

 

“Not the last,” he blubbers desperately, “I'm not alone!”

 

 

\----X----

 

 

 

Rose had the strangest dream. She was shopping for the baby, and she ran into the Doctor – her _first_ Doctor. He was just the same, all big ears and big nose and big blue eyes, roughly hewn and beautiful. His leather jacket was firmly in place, and he even smelled like motor oil and time and soap.

 

It's strange how much she missed him, even with her second Doctor. She loves them both, yes, because they're both her Doctor, but...she _had_ missed him. Still does. Every bit as much as she misses the second, with his floppy hair and fantastic smile and unstoppable gob.

 

Dreams doesn't change that he's gone. She's in a universe he can't reach, with _I'm burning up a sun just to say goodbye_ and _Rose Tyler, I_ – and _I could save the world but lose you_ circling endlessly through her mind. She can't wallow in her misery, doesn't dare try and crack the Void open just to reach him one last time, because as much as she wants to, Rose can't just think about what _she_ wants. Not now. Not ever again (and she's so thankful for that, because she's afraid she would have brought both universes down around their ears if things were different).

 

She has to think about the baby. About their _son_. She's terrified of raising him, a half-human Time Lord without a TARDIS or stars or the whole of time at his fingertips. But she's thrilled, yeah, she really is, because no matter _what_ , she and the Doctor are going to go on forever. Their son was created in love, will be born into love, and will _live_ a life of love.

 

And one day, if he is very lucky, he'll find a way back to his father. Then they can spend eternity in the stars, and the Doctor will never be alone again.

 

The thought of this brings a smile to Rose's lips, and she lifts her hands, pressing them to her stomach. The baby has the hiccups again, as he has on and off all day, poor thing. It's so sweet, that fluttering tickle deep inside, and it makes her so inexplicably _happy_ that Rose swears she can hear the TARDIS' song in her head. Golden and bright and so tender, so loving.

 

This cheers her, remembering the TARDIS so vividly. She knows, deep in her in her bones, that one day her son will pilot the time ship, will find the home his mother lost and his father stole from a junk yard. Comforted by this thought, Rose stretches and yawns, finally opening her eyes. She fully expects to see afternoon sunlight and the shadow of tree branches and leaves dancing across the ceiling, maybe even to hear her mum and Pete downstairs.

 

Instead she sees a ceiling that, while familiar, is also impossible.

 

Rose blinks, looking again. The view remains the same.

 

Hope begins to bubble up in her chest. Could it be...could he have found a way...?

 

“Glad to see you awake,” says a voice that _cannot possibly_ be real. “Was starting to get worried about you, I was.”

 

Very slowly, Rose turns her head. Beside her bed is her first Doctor, leather jacket slung across the back of his chair, a book written in the complicated circles of Gallifreyian open his hands. He's smiling at her; not the manic, ear-to-ear grin that meant adventure or trouble or _run_ , not even the soft, sweet smile that was for Rose and her alone. No, this is pleasant, closed off, and wary. His eyes are hopeful, yet distant.

 

It's like...it's like he doesn't even _know_ her.

 

“Doctor?” she asks, pushing herself up. Inside her head the TARDIS sings, cheerful and so sweet it almost makes Rose cry. “What... _how_...?”

 

“That's me,” he answers agreeably, “and 'how' would take a very long to explain. No, now, don't move around too much, you've had enough of a shock today. Do you want to sit up?”

 

Rose nods, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. The Doctor raises the head of the bed, fluffs her pillows and props her up, before taking his chair once more. “All comfy? Good. Well then, since you know who I am, I think it's only fair to ask; who are you?”

 

 _Who are you_?

 

“You...don't know?” Chin quivering, Rose fits her hands in the blanket bunched up in her lap. It's like a knife between the ribs. “It's me, Doctor. It's Rose.”

 

The Doctor gets that look, the one that says he's thinking hard. His forehead wrinkles and mouth thins out, he leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his dark blue jumper, watching Rose watch him. Finally he says, “I think we must be out of order, that you're from my future. That's not important right now though, what is...” he pauses, bobbing her head towards her stomach. “A little Time Lord, you've got. Who's the father?”

 

Though it feels as though her heart is fracturing and she's trying to pick up the painful shards, Rose manages to get out, “You.” The look on his face is almost, _almost_ , worth it.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

He makes tea, and it's as good as it always was. They take it in the library, where he bundles Rose in blankets in a comfortable arm chair before taking a seat in the one across from her. Haltingly, and with a great many tears, Rose gives the Doctor her story. From the beginning ( _run_ , that one word, emblazoning him across her heart for all of time), to the end ( _Rose Tyler, I_ –) and everything in between. He listens, quiet and watchful.

 

“Parallel universe,” he finally speaks, holding his mug of the last remains of tea gone cold. “When the...during the war, when the Eye was released, it must have fractured me and the TARDIS. It's the only explanation for why I'm here, and he's there.”

 

Rose doesn't much care for the why's, at least right now. All she wants to know is...is it even _possible_...

 

“I can't, I'm sorry.” The Doctor speaks before Rose can ask, making her stomach clench painfully. He always was able to read her, and this Doctor is no different than his counterpart. “I'm sorry, Rose, I truly am, but it would tear the entire multiverse apart. The same Time Lord from two different universes meeting up...” he shudders, eyes growing and dark and haunted, perhaps at the knowledge of the carnage it would cause.

 

“I'm sorry, Rose Tyler,” he says again, “I truly am.”

 

What can she say? She wants to scream, to rail, to throw her mug in his face and spit in his eye. But this...she _knows_ this man, knows him as well as anyone in any universe can the Doctor. He's broken and hurting and so lonely, desperate for a hand to hold while he runs away from the nightmares of his past. She can't bring herself to hurt him worse, so she simply says, “I understand,” and puts a hand over her eyes while she cries.

 

She had hoped...

 

But it's still there, isn't it, that dream? Different, raw and new and fragile, but _there_. This is the Doctor, and while maybe it won't be exactly the same, it could be something. Her son may have the chance to take his first steps across the floor of the TARDIS, to crawl under the console and learn what makes this magnificent ship tick, to learn the ancient language of his father's people.

 

In the end, it is more than Rose thought he would ever have, and this hope is so much better than none at all.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

 

Rose Tyler returns to the home she's made with her mother and new father, a country estate outside of London. The sky is free of zeppelins most of the time, the home is surrounded by rolling country fields and farm land and is near one quaint looking village. The Doctor sees her to the door, like a gentlemen would (it's a bit strange, actually). Her gaze is unnerving, dark and brilliant and knowing, as though she's crawled inside his mind and soul, seen all dark, dreadful thing he's ever done in his life.

 

He wants to run away from her, run away _with_ her, to link his mind with that of his alternate version's unborn child, and to forget it exists. So he does what he does best; the Doctor flees.

 

He goes to Egypt, and witnesses the death of Tutankhamen, feels cold chills when the shock of it forces the young queen into a miscarriage. He shoots across three galaxies and finds himself on Trillinkaqui, where the sky is green as emeralds and the people have skin like diamonds. He sees two glimmering children holding hands, racing through the high amber grass near their home, and he actually runs back to the TARDIS.

 

Earth, 32nd century. He foils an alien invasion in Washington DC, and the Lady President's daughter gives him a shy kiss on the cheek and a hand drawn picture. “Thank you for saving my mommies,” she says, with a gap tooth smile, and the Doctor almost cries.

 

He takes the TARDIS into the Vortex, and stays there. Wandering through half forgotten rooms, he finds his old cot and the booties Susan wore after she was Loomed, tiny and delicate. Turning his back on them doesn't seem to help, and the TARDIS is a constant presence around his body, under his feet, in his mind. Reproachful and coaxing and demanding by turns, she threatens to shut down and crash them both if he doesn't return to the unborn Time Lord and the human carrying him.

 

Since the Time War ended, the Doctor hasn't been able to look at his own time line. Not because he can't, no, but because it is...so empty. So alone. No other Gallifreyians coming in and out, no frustrating summons by the Council. Seeing this is like pouring salt on an open wound, and the Doctor is not masochistic enough to enjoy such soul crushing pain.

 

Still, this is an occasion that calls for such a painfully drastic measure. Time is still there, as it always is, though perhaps a bit more worn and ragged on the edges after such a horrific war, one that nearly tore the whole of existence apart.

 

Everywhere the Doctor looks, there is gold. It winds about his own timeline; here a playful curling, there a protective grasp, farther away a comfortable alignment that quite possibly stretches beyond eternity. There are balls and knots of unrealized or complicated futures, the traces of lives entering and leaving their own.

 

But there is always, always the gold – and the Doctor knows that it belongs to Rose Tyler. The Bad Wolf.

 

 _I create myself_ , he hears, an echo of a memory he doesn't own.

 

How? It doesn't make sense. A human, living forever, running at the side of a renegade Time Lord? She will die, or leave, or tire of him; but the gold tells a different story, one that refutes the Doctor's fears.

 

In the end, he doesn't even have to set the coordinates to her home, the TARDIS has already done so for him. They land three days after his meeting with Rose, in the large back garden where ivy grows over the stone fence and an old yew tree spreads massive branches.

 

“I knew you'd be coming back,” says a sharply angry voice, one with hints of exhaustion and fear tingeing the edges of it. The Doctor hasn't even got the door to the TARDIS entirely opened, and there's a shrew already after him. “Even after that show on the beach. Took you long enough, didn't it? Been listening day and night for that racket your ship makes. What's the use of having a great big alien brain, if all you're going to do with it is strand my daughter in another universe _after_ you've gone and knocked her up. And don't think you and I won't be having words, mate, if my grandson sprouts tentacles or something!”

 

Stepping outside, the Doctor gapes at a woman who can only be Rose's mother. She's looking at the ground, maybe hiding tears or rage or gratefulness, with her arms are curled tightly around her stomach. “You best not hurt them, either of them, not after what she's gone through. If you do, I swear I'll –” The threat trails off, the fiery glare lifted towards him fades away. Astonishment washes over this woman in waves (Jackie, the Doctor recalls Rose naming her mum), so strong she actually staggers a step back.

 

“My God,” she breathes, “b-but Rose said you were gone. Not coming back, not like this.”

 

“Did she?” the Doctor finally settles on saying, folding his arms across his chest. Had it bothered her when he regenerated? It's hard on his human companions when he changes, he's seen it too often. He wonders how long it took her to adjust, to fall back in love. “I'm the alternate version of the Doctor you know.”

 

“There's a bit of that going around,” Jackie says knowingly, before giving him a dark scowl. “Well still, what took you so long, then? You've got a baby on the way. Oh, come on, get in the house. Come on!”

 

The Doctor is far more used to issuing the orders, but Jackie Tyler is a bit intimidating. He glowers and rolls his eyes, but sulks his way inside. This back door leads into a kitchen full of pristine white and wood and bits of chrome, faintly expensive and completely comfortable. Pete Tyler is at the table eating a fry up, attempting to appear completely absorbed in his food, though it's obvious he's only pretending he hadn't heard _every_ word of their conversation. Even the newspaper at his elbow, the one he's pretending to read between bites, is upside down.

 

“Alternate version of the Doctor, don't mind that he has a different face. He does that. And for the love of God, Pete, chew with your bloody mouth closed, we aren't on the council estate now.” Jackie whacks her husband as she passes, leaving the poor man to choke. That may be more from looking up and finding this Doctor instead of the one he knew, though.

 

“Different face?” he asks, blinking. After a moment he shrugs, appearing mostly unconcerned. “Huh. I'll be. Come on then, sit down. Rose should be stumbling in any time.”

 

Off-balance and itching from the sheer domestics of it all, the Doctor takes a seat. In no time Jackie Tyler has not only given him a cuppa exactly how he likes it (the suggestion of this familiarity is a bit terrifying), but plunked a plate down in front of him.

 

“Eat,” she orders fiercely, while buttering his toast. “Don't you give me none of that 'Time Lords are superior' nonsense, either; look at you, skin and bones, could cut yourself on your cheek bones. You used to be brawny, you know that, when you were with Rose in the other place. At least in this body, well, with the other one you look like a strong breeze will carry you away, but that's no accounting for taste, I suppose.” Apparently pausing for breath, Jackie gives the Doctor such a threatening look that he picks up his fork and takes in heartily to the eggs, rather worried he's about to have a bib tied around his neck and a spoon feeding if he doesn't obey.

 

Shockingly, the Doctor realizes he actually _is_ hungry, and tucks into the food with gusto. Jackie's not a bad cook, actually, though he's already decided telling her that is never, ever going to happen. He's nearly finished when he hears footsteps above them, and the excited tickling of a tiny mind straining to reach his own.

 

It feels him. This child, this almost son, he _feels_ the Doctor. He has to stop and take a deep breath, steadying his suddenly trembling hands.

 

When Rose finally comes downstairs and enters the kitchen, she's wearing fuzzy pajamas covered in bright yellow rubber ducks, an untied dress gown, and bunny house slippers. The ears bob with each step she takes. With her blonde hair a snarled mess and old mascara ringing her swollen, tired eyes, she looks young and fragile and rather beautiful. It's terrifying as the Doctor realizes suddenly, how...how _human_ this woman is.

 

“Morning,” she says around a jaw cracking yawn, before her forward momentum stalls. She gapes at the Doctor, fingers twitching as she takes in ears and nose and leather jacket. “Doctor?” she breathes, and he tenses in case she faints and needs catching.

 

“Good morning, Rose,” he answers, smiling as best he can. “Lovely slippers.”

 

“Says the man that has Spiderman pants,” Rose volleys back without missing a beat, and the Doctor realizes that Rose Tyler isn't the fainting type, their first meeting (in this world) probably being more the exception than the rule. She skirts around behind her father's chair, allowing him to rub her stomach fondly before taking her seat.

 

“Spiderman pants, why am I not surprised? Nothing but a big kid, this one.” Jackie hustles over with tea and a plate for her daughter before sitting down, giving Rose quite a stern look. “So, you know about him, then? Nice of you to tell me, give us some warning that you and the baby would be swanning off visiting planets with tentacle monsters and such.”

 

“We haven't talked about anything, Mum, and we only just...met.” Toying with her food, Rose doesn't meet anyone's gaze. “It's complicated.”

 

“Complicated? How is this complicated? Your dad and I worked out fine, and this is the same situation, you know.”

 

“Not our relationship, Jax,” advises Pete quietly. “What happens between them has nothing to do with us.”

 

“Oh, nothing to do with us! No, that's fine, we're just her parents, and little Hiram's grand –”

 

“Mum, for the _last time_ , I ain't naming him 'Hiram!'” Rose and Jackie turn identical expressions of sheer stubbornness on each other.

 

“That's your Granddad Prentice's name, and if it was good enough for him, it's good enough for your baby!”

 

“Not gonna happen.”

 

“You'll warm up to it. Promise.”

 

“ _Never_ gonna happen!”

 

The bickering is interrupted by the Doctor's bark of laughter, one he simply can't contain. Here he is, over nine hundred years old, the destroyer of his planet, a man who committed genocide on two separate species, and he sits in a human family's kitchen while they fight over baby names. His alternative self's baby, nonetheless.

 

“Don't mind me,” he says, voice tight and strained as he waves one hand. “Go on, go back to it. Just watching, me.”

 

Pete chuckles, before quickly hiding behind his newspaper when Jackie turns a death glare on him.

 

It's probably the strangest breakfast the Doctor's ever experienced, and given his track record, that really is saying something.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The TARDIS sings when Rose Tyler pulls a key from her around her neck and unlocks the door, letting herself in. The Doctor follows behind her, hands tucked inside his pockets as he watches her movements. She goes right to the console, trails her hands over levers and buttons and bells, fat tears dripping off her nose and chin while around them the TARDIS pulses with pleasure.

 

“I missed you,” she says, and the Doctor knows it's not for him. He's awed, perhaps even humbled, by this display; his companions have cared for his ship, yes, in the way they might a vehicle or prized possession, or even a distant pet. But Rose is _talking_ to her, and more than that, the Doctor can feel his TARDIS sinking into her mind, and he wonders what she's impressing upon Rose.

 

“Mind if I take her into the Vortex while we talk? I need to set some maintenance scans running.” They could wait, but the Doctor will be far more at ease among the stars.

 

“Go ahead, I don't mind.”

 

Rose watches the Doctor while he moves around the console, he can feel her eyes on him. He wonders how difficult this must be for her, having been so close to this other Doctor, to be with him now, and not have the same relationship. He feels badly for her, truly he does; he thinks in time they will be good friends. (More? He wonders, and is caught between shame and excitement. The Doctor is the Doctor, and it doesn't matter _which_ universe he's in, mating with a human girl would be usual for him; Rose Tyler must be something special, and _this_ Doctor is rather frightened he'll go the same route as his other self.)

 

They return to the library, but this time Rose winds in and out of the stacks, until they're three stories up and she's squeaking with happiness when she finds the door which leads into a private, incredibly Victorian study. “I spent a lot of time in here,” she explains, giving him a smile that is bright, tongue between her teeth. For a moment she begins the motion of reaching out, as though she wants to hold hands. She pulls back halfway, an expression of pain darkening her eyes.

 

Pity isn't an emotion the Doctor is comfortable with, but here it is. He pities her, and before he can think about it, he snags her hand. It's nice, having a hand to hold – he hasn't, not in ages. Rose sort of sighs, running her thumb across his knuckles, delicately pressing her fingers in the gaps between his.

 

Tears in her eyes, Rose takes in their intertwined hands with a look of desperation, and awe, and something so much like love it makes the Doctor's hearts stall.

 

“So...” Clearing her throat, Rose finally approaches the conversation they are here to engage in. “What're we going to do, Doctor?”

 

“First we need to set boundaries we're comfortable with. I – I know I want to be a part of your son's life, Rose. He's going to be different, and he's going to need me to help him.” A pause, while the Doctor tries to work out his thoughts. What does he want? Really, truly, what does he want? “I'll be whatever you let me be. Whatever you're comfortable with.”

 

It's not what he meant to say. He meant to say, _I can't be a father_ or _I'm not the man you lost_ , because that's what he needs to be reminding her of. Instead he's giving her the power, all but inviting her to explore the option of...of becoming whatever it was the were in her world.

 

Rose nods, eyes dark and unfathomable. They don't speak again, don't even begin to sort out this madness that they've been dumped into. Instead they watch each other and the fire and think their own thoughts, remaining palm to palm.


End file.
